


Part of His World

by Piru (pyrefly)



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: 5000-10000 Words, Angst, Gift Fic, Graphic Sex, M/M, Mindfuck, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrefly/pseuds/Piru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akihito takes a stab at living in Asami's world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part of His World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuchren](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kuchren).



> The prompt was "raw sex".
> 
> Inspired by the ending of Ch. 10, I wanted to write a fic about Asami and Akihito actually living together and going on a date and being more of an actual couple. So here you get angst, mindfuckery, and a healthy dose of darkroom sex. Yes, I said darkroom sex. Since I do B&amp;W photography myself, there's a quick and (very) dirty lesson in film developing. *g* Apologies for the possibly OOC ending—I was in a schmoopy mood when I actually got around to wrapping this up.

  


Akihito would never have agreed to it if the circumstances hadn't been so desperate. He knew what it meant when a man bought someone else an apartment. He knew very well, and that was reason alone to refuse. To make things worse, the man who had bought the apartment was Asami—that same fucking smug, arrogant bastard who came all the time to toy with him, mindfuck him, then ravage him physically, before disappearing again without so much as a “goodbye”. That same man thanks to whom he had been at gunpoint more times in the past few months than he really cared to count. He was not about to let Asami do him any favors, much less ones that would make it seem like he was the man's lover.

  
  


But the truth of the matter was that the situation didn't leave him a lot of other options. He'd taken on two other part-time jobs in addition to his photography work. He redid his budget so that he only spent minimal amounts of his income on anything but rent, including food, which meant that he learned to work with hunger pangs that were often hard to ignore. When the cost of electricity continued to rise because it was winter, he got rid of his cell phone for a while to try to make ends meet. But rent in Tokyo was just so damn expensive, and his landlord had already gotten tired of cutting him slack. As much as he worked, as little as he ate, and as many times as he was forced to forgo sleep, he was still having a hard time coming up with the money at the end of the month.

  
  


It was during this time that, on one of Asami's visits—while Akihito was without a phone, the perverted bastard began to make it a habit to show up at his door every few days to fuck him and then disappear again right away—the other had commented that the 20 sq. m. apartment was really far too small. Amidst being groped generously, Akihito had mumbled that it was just fine for one person, and that he didn't feel it necessary to upgrade to a bigger space just so Asami could come and indulge in his love of playing cat-and-mouse. Asami had laughed in response, whispering that the mouse was being far too docile today for his taste. Akihito blushed, unwilling to admit that his lack of energy could be attributed to the fact that he hadn't been eating nearly as much as a young man his age should. He had come to accept the fact that Asami had ways of figuring things out about him that he wouldn't ordinarily care to admit, but his financial worries were ones that he under no circumstances was willing to share with anyone else.

  
  


Whether because Asami had somehow figured out the situation with the rent after all, or whether because he truly felt the need for more space to play his mind games in—either way, it seemed Asami wasn't about to abandon the idea. The next morning, Akihito found himself alone, which was no surprise. However, early the following day, a car honked outside, and when Akihito went to take a look, he found Asami's driver waiting with the limo.

  
  


Despite his misgivings about _anything_ involving Asami, his curiosity won out, and he went to take a look. Asami himself was not in the car, but the driver said that he had received instructions to show the boy something. Akihito decided to take a chance and trust him. It was around noon on a Saturday. As long as they stayed in the city, wherever they went, there were bound to be lots of people around, minimizing the risk of anything dangerous or unwanted happening to him. Akihito got in the car.

  
  


He soon found himself outside a modern high-rise apartment complex in a neighborhood not too far from his own. The driver pulled up to the curb and, without saying a word, gave him a slip of paper with a room number: 614. 6th floor, room 14, Akihito guessed. He got out of the car and went inside. The desk attendant asked his name, then gestured for him to continue on in after he gave his name. There was an elevator, but he decided to take the stairs. He was a healthy young man, after all, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of this place. He realized he could very well be walking into a trap—although he'd like to think that he could trust Asami, with his life if not with his body. But, you just never knew. If he'd learned anything in the past year, it was to never let your guard down too much.

  
  


There were little children running down the stairs to go and play outside—fucking _kids_. Whatever was taking place upstairs, it better not be anything too dangerous. Although he wasn't by any means a very altruistic person, Akihito couldn't stand the thought of any harm befalling the youngsters. For all he knew, the fucking mafia could be upstairs poised to blow up the entire building. He wondered briefly whether he should've brought his camera.

  
  


Room 614. There wasn't a sign with the name of the resident. That was probably a bad sign. Probably. Akihito braced himself as he knocked on the door. There was a flurry of footsteps on the other side—from the sound of it, only one pair of shoes, though. It sounded like high heels. That caught Akihito off-guard.

  
  


The woman who opened the door was wearing a navy business skirt-suit with a white blouse, tan stockings, and old-fashioned pumps. She wore her dark brown hair tied back in a bun, and her thin, narrow face sported a pair of wire-rimmed, oval-shaped glasses. She held a small black briefcase in one hand, rather than a traditional purse. Akihito caught himself staring. He could only hope that this wasn't the new face of the Chinese mafia, because he sure as hell wasn't sure what else might be going on.

  
  


“Good afternoon!” the woman greeted him politely, smiling as she bowed. “You must be Takaba-san. I am Himawari Yuiko of the Kaneshiro Realty Group. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  
  


“N-Nice to meet you, Himawari-san,” Akihito replied as he bowed back a little stiffly, unused to such proper gestures. “Umm. Where is Asami?”

  
  


“Asami-san has a meeting and cannot make it today,” Himawari answered, her smile never faltering. “I was instructed to go ahead and give you the tour anyway.”

  
  


“T-tour?” Akihito stammered, scratching his head in confusion. “You mean...?”

  
  


Himawari, however, completely ignored his flailing and gestured toward the living room in front of them. “Now, if you'll please step out of your shoes and follow me—”

  
  


Gnashing his teeth as he took off his shoes and put on the complimentary house slippers provided generously by the Kaneshiro Realty Group, Akihito wondered how the Hell that bastard Asami got off if he truly thought that he was ever going to agree to this sort of arrangement. The arrogant son of a bitch had already proposed the idea on several occasions, and Akihito had flatly rejected his offer every single time. What was he going to have to do to get through to him and make him realize that he was never going to say 'yes'?!

  
  


The woman just kept on talking, completely oblivious to his anger. “All in all, the apartment is roughly 45 sq. m. in size. Aside from the spacious living room you see before you, there is a separate kitchen in the back. Through the door to the left are the bedroom and bathroom...”

  
  


So for all the bastard's complaints about the lack of space in Akihito's flat and his promises of luxury and comfort, the space was only a little over twice as big as his own. Though, considering it was to be inhabited by only one person, it was rather spacious, Akihito supposed. The living room was certainly quite large, with room for a couch and a coffee table in addition to a small dining table and a desk. The prospect of having an actual, proper kitchen with generous counter space and shelving was slightly thrilling. The bathroom, too, was generously sized; Akihito had never owned an apartment with a real bathtub before. The bedroom was huge, for a room that really only needed to hold a bed and a nightstand. Akihito wondered what Asami planned to do to him with that much space, and the thought sent shivers running up his spine.

  
  


In the end, it was the darkroom that did it. Himawari explained that it had originally been designed to be a study, but that certain residents had opted to transform it for other purposes, which was allowed within the contract as long as any permanent construction received approval from the realty group. Akihito thought about asking who'd decided to turn this one into a darkroom, but he didn't really want to know the answer. He was too spellbound, anyhow. It was small, but it had a heavy door and featured everything a freelance photographer needed; the proper red lights were installed, and there was a screen separating the processing area, which had a long counter, a film-drying cabinet, and a large sink, from the printing area, which featured two enlargers and a special wash basin with room for developing trays.

  
  


It was like he could smell the strong scent of photo chemicals all over his hands already, and the image was so vivid that he had to take a step back before he could regain his bearings. He'd be lying if he said that this wasn't the realization of the dream he'd sought after for years, and it was completely disorienting to think that it might be within his grasp, even if it was questionable whether he'd earned it through his own hard work or not—whether the place where he stood now was worth the sacrifices he'd made to get here. He'd been spending most of this past year wondering whether he truly liked the person he had become.

  
  


“I take it you like it?” Himawari questioned cautiously as Akihito struggled to catch his breath.

  
  


He found it hard to admit that he was actually considering it, but damn it, he really did need this sort of break, and he'd be stupid not to at least ask. “Do I need to give you an answer right away?”

  
  


“Answer...? I'm not quite sure what you mean, Takaba-san.” She wore her smile like a mask, so that even in her professed confusion, her countenance was the same as it had been all afternoon. “You are aware that it's already been paid for, are you not?”

  
  


_Already paid for_... Akihito's mind reeled. So the fucking smug bastard hadn't even bothered to wait for an answer, like he already knew he'd say yes. He should've walked out the door right then and never returned to this fucking place, because even breathing the air here in a way served to assert Asami's claims of ownership over him. But he was painfully aware of the pile of bills awaiting him at home, and he asked himself whether a bit of his pride was truly too high a price to pay for a worry-free night and the musical sound of photo chemicals splashing about in developing trays.

  
  


“Umm. May I please see the contract?” Akihito asked tentatively.

  
  


Himawari beamed as she extracted a pile of papers from her briefcase. “Certainly! I have a copy of it right here.”

  
  


“Thank you.” Akihito forced himself to smile back as he took the packet from her outstretched hand.

  
  


Right away, his eye went to the name of the new owner of the apartment: 'Takami Ryouhito'. Asami must've pulled some strings in order to sign for the place under a false name. Akihito couldn't help entertaining the hope-filled thought that perhaps this was one of the subtle ways that Asami revealed that he was worried about his safety. Asami's enemies had broken into Akihito's apartment on several occasions, and Asami had expressed his concern about it before in his gruff, cold manner. Having an apartment that was not registered under either of their names would be like an extra form of security, although he had to wonder if it would truly keep out the mafia bosses in the end.

  
  


As he scanned over the small print enumerating the various terms of the contract, Himawari explained, “As per Asami-san's special arrangements, the contract includes a year's rent, as well as a year's worth of payments for electricity, water, and the standard cable TV package. In other words, unless you subscribe to any additional services, you will not be receiving any bills for the remainder of the year.”

  
  


_Say no. Say no. Say no._ Goddamnit, why was it so hard to flat-out say no?! He could imagine the smug look on the perverted bastard's face when he discovered that Akihito had taken up his offer, and there was no way he wanted to give Asami that satisfaction. But the prospect of not having any bills to pay sent all his senses awhirl as effectively as a single glass of whiskey.

  
  


He'd thanked Himawari courteously and blindly made his way back down the stairs, past the desk attendant—the place had a fucking _desk attendant—_to the limo that was still waiting patiently outside. He took a seat in the back without saying a word, and the driver took him back to his own flat equally tacitly.

  
  


As he let Akihito out in front of his own apartment complex, the man rolled down the window and said, “Asami-sama will be sending over a moving van tomorrow morning. Good day.” Then, without so much as another glance, the limo drove off.

  
  


“Che.”

  
  


As he walked up the stairs, opened the door to his abysmally small apartment, and collapsed on his bed, Akihito told himself that nothing had been decided yet. Asami might _think_ that he had made the decision for him, but he wasn't about to let it be that simple. He still had a whole night to think it over and weigh the pros and cons against each other. At the same time, however, he knew that a part of him had already been won over by the darkroom and the prospect of a bill-less future. It was all too good to be true, really. But he wasn't about to surrender the control of his circumstances—not to Asami or to anyone else. If anything, he could always _temporarily_ take up Asami's offer. In the meantime, he'd just work hard and save all his money so that he could pay the sleazy drug lord back someday.

  
  


_That's right_, he thought to himself as he drifted off to sleep, exhausted by the day's events. _I'll work hard, get rich, pay him back, get even, and before you know it, _I'll_ be the one buying apartments for that fucking bastard._

  
  


As sleep took hold of him, there was a victorious smile on Akihito's face.

  
  


***

  
  


That was a little more over a month ago now. His pride still hurt a bit at the memory of having been manipulated into accepting Asami's arrangement so easily, but what was done was done. In the meantime, at least he hadn't been plagued by hunger pangs, and he'd been able to quit one of his part-time jobs and finally get a reasonable amount of sleep again.

  
  


Asami had given him a few days to move in and get settled before inviting himself over. Akihito grudgingly admitted to himself that he shouldn't have been too surprised that the bastard had made a duplicate of the key, but that still didn't stop him from freezing up and not knowing how to feel when Asami had just barged in one night, slung him over his shoulder, carried him to the bedroom, flung him down on the bed, and fucked him mercilessly.

  
  


Akihito found himself blushing furiously, not only because of that one memory but because it had been followed by so many others. As he regarded his new, spacious living room, he couldn't find many places where Asami _hadn't_ violated him: on the couch, up against the bookcase (he still hadn't had any luck washing some of the stains off the covers, and he hopes Murakami and Furui Yoshikichi would forgive him), on the dining table, in his desk chair (so that was Asami's idea of “working”), on the floor beside the door (freshly showered dressed in only a towel when he'd answered the door, that was the one time Asami seemed to have had so little self-control that they hadn't even been able to make it to the sofa), and well into the rest of the apartment: on the kitchen counter, up against the refrigerator (the magnets poking into his back had been especially uncomfortable), in the shower, in the bathtub (he still wasn't sure he could appreciate Asami's idea of what constitutes “clean”), and, of course, covering almost every centimeter of the bedroom. The darkroom was probably the only place where they hadn't done it yet, as though they both considered it sacred territory.

  
  


_Fucking pervert._ Akihito felt himself growing hotter, but he'd never admit it for the world, fuck no.

  
  


Nor was he ever going to admit that he'd been growing used to Asami's visits every three or four days, so much so that when, toward the ends of the second week, the bastard suddenly disappeared and hadn't returned or sent word of his whereabouts for almost three weeks now, Akihito was feeling a tad, well, frustrated. _Sexually_ frustrated.

  
  


It was hard enough, knowing that a little more of his pride and his fighting spirit was being whittled away with every one of Asami's nightly visits. The fact that he now had a hard time keeping his hand out of his own pants and stopping himself from fantasizing about Asami licking him, caressing him, thrusting deep inside of him—it was too much, just to much. He hated the way he was becoming. He could hardly stand looking at himself in the mirror anymore.

  
  


It was Asami's fault. Everything was _always_ Asami's fault.

  
  


Having had enough money to reactivate his cell phone, he'd even tried calling, even though before he'd rather have died than be the one to take the initiative. But each time, no one had picked up, and he hadn't had the courage to leave a message for fear of sounding like a desperate lover.

  
  


Which is essentially what he was, a small part of his conscience told him. Akihito gritted his teeth. He hated that part of his conscience the most.

  
  


It was an unnecessarily cruel thing to do, though, Akihito reasoned to himself. Asami could have been shot, for all he knew. Was it really fair to not send word at all of where he was and whether he was doing all right?

  
  


Not that Akihito cared, of course. Who would care about the wellbeing of that fucking perverted bastard, after all?

  
  


***

  
  


When the phone call finally came, it had been so long that it took him completely by surprise.

  
  


“You'll be accompanying me to an exhibition tomorrow.”

  
  


“Well, hello to you too. It's good to hear you've been well these three weeks. I've been great, too, in case you were wondering.” There was undisguised anger in his voice, and Akihito knew he was being petty, but he couldn't help himself.

  
  


Asami sounded exactly the same as always: cool, collected, and completely unaffected by Akihito's sentiments. “Quit being childish. The driver will come to pick you up at 5 o'clock sharp tomorrow. Be ready.”

  
  


“All it would've taken was one phone call, you know. Or a post card. Or something. Anything. Fuck!” He knew he was losing his composure in an embarrassing way, but he'd still rather babble and argue than admit how truly relieved he was to hear that Asami seemed to be just fine.

  
  


“It's a formal affair, so I'll send someone by with clothes in the morning. Make sure you answer the door. _Click._” The line was disconnected from the other end.

  
  


Goddamnit, he was _not_ crying.

  
  


***

  
  


The courier didn’t say a word when he delivered the box at Akihito’s door the next day. The boy, too, received it wordlessly, and refused to open it or take a look at its contents until it was already after 4 o’clock and he realized it was time to get ready to leave.

  
  


The suit was obviously tailor-made, designed to perfectly fit every part of his body. For as far as he could recall, Asami had never had anyone come in and take all his measurements. Of course, if anyone knew his body's measurements and proportions like the back of his own hand, it was Asami. The thought made Akihito's knees weak.

  
  


He'd never owned a suit so obviously expensive. He usually just shopped at cheap department stores and retail vendors. He was so slender and short enough that suits never seemed to fit right, so he'd given up trying to find the perfect fit. The pants were usually too long, the jackets too big at the shoulders and waist. Asami had once jested that Akihito looked nice in a suit, but that he'd _really_ like to see him in a well-fitted one. Well, Akihito supposed he was getting his wish now, the sneaky bastard.

  
  


He was blushing again. Fuck.

  
  


He took a little effort to try and coax some style into his unruly hair, although the energy mostly went wasted. As nice as the suit looked, he just wasn’t made for this manner of dress. His thoughts were interrupted by the honk of the limo’s horn outside.

  
  


Two minutes later, he was downstairs. It seemed to be the same car as always, although the driver was different. This wasn’t unusual. As he stepped inside, Akihito wondered if Asami really had that many different drivers on retainer, or if he deliberately only kept them on for short periods of time. At the thought of Asami, he found himself growing increasingly antsy in anticipation of their reunion.

  
  


The drive took twenty minutes. Akihito knew because he counted every minute—every fucking _second_, it seemed like—from when they departed until the limo slowed to a halt in front of the art gallery. The driver got out to open the door for him, but he beat the man to it. In seconds, he was standing on the sidewalk.

  
  


The driver’s expression appeared unfazed. “Asami-sama is waiting for you in the lobby.”

  
  


Without another word, the man reentered the car and drove off.

  
  


Akihito turned around and hurried inside the building. There, he hesitated for just a second. There were two wide corridors ahead of him. One seemed to lead deeper into the building, while the other appeared to continue along the front. He decided upon the latter. It seemed the logical direction of the lobby.

  
  


As expected, the corridor gave way to a large foyer. Marble columns rose up two stories high to a gilded ceiling. Further down, a large, ornamented entryway led to what he assumed to be the gallery exhibit. There was a fucking red carpet on the floor, guiding the elegantly clad guests inside.

  
  


Scanning the small crowd, Akihito did not find Asami among them. He searched the rest of the lobby and finally found a familiar tall, broad-shouldered figure leaning up against one of the columns while he waited.

  
  


Asami looked completely unchanged. Akihito's heart fell at the sight. He'd hoped for some sign, something—a broken limb, a scar, a gunshot wound—_anything_ to justify the agony he'd gone through for the past three weeks. But Asami looked calm, composed, and completely indifferent. He was smoking a fucking cigar and sipping at a glass of champagne.

  
  


His suit was tuxedo-style, and Akihito caught himself wondering how quickly and deftly Asami could remove it if he tried to 'take' Akihito—the man was a fucking world record holder when it came to shedding clothes in the anticipation of sex. Had to be.

  
  


...Shit. He did _not_ just think that.

  
  


“The suit looks good on you,” Asami commented, smirking.

  
  


Akihito gritted his teeth. “Fuck you.”

  
  


“Later,” Asami grinned, and Akihito almost angrily walked away at sight of the smug expression on the drug lord’s face. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  
  


Asami didn’t hold his hand, but, stepping very closely behind him as they walked, he still made it very clear whom Akihito was here with. Akihito wondered whose benefit that gesture was for. He might not be happy to be here, but he wasn’t about to make a run for it either.

  
  


The exhibit was surprisingly unimpressive. Having studied photography in school, Akihito knew a little about art—enough to know that this certainly wasn’t among the top tier of modern painting. He was taken aback by the amount of discussion the pictures seemed to spark—until he took a closer look at the faces of the chatting guests around the room and realized that their conversations probably had nothing to do with art at all.

  
  


Fucking mobsters in fancy suits with cigars. All of them, probably. The exhibit was probably just a front for their shady transactions and negotiations.

  
  


Asami confirmed Akihito’s suspicion when the tall man wandered off to converse with a few other men in a corner. None of them paid much attention to the art around them. Akihito found himself one of the only ones lingering close to the walls and actually looking up at the paintings that hung from them.

  
  


A waiter brought him a glass of champagne. Accepting it courteously and taking little sips, Akihito felt foolishly out of place. This wasn’t his world, and Asami’s leaving him to stroll about on his own only heightened his discomfort.

  
  


An old, portly gentleman slithered up behind Akihito when he had made it to the far side of the gallery and tried to flirt with him for a while. Akihito tried to reject his advances without seeming rude. He felt relieved when Asami walked up and put a possessive hand on the small of his back. The elderly man understood the message and walked away.

  
  


“Shall we go?” Asami whispered in his ear from behind.

  
  


Akihito nodded. He’d had enough of the place. They’d been here less than an hour, but for some reason, it had worn him out.

  
  


With a parting half-wave to a few of the other guests, Asami ushered him through the lobby and outside to the street. A few feet away, the limo was already waiting for them.

  
  


“Are you hungry?” Asami gently rested his hand on Akihito’s shoulder.

  
  


Akihito shrugged off the hand immediately. “No. I want to go home.”

  
  


“You didn't eat before coming here.” It wasn't a question, but these days, Akihito no longer questioned that Asami knew everything. “You must be hungry.”

  
  


He didn't answer. He was being petty, he knew, but until Asami started giving him answers, neither would he.

  
  


Gesturing toward the waiting limo, Asami seemed entirely unperturbed by his attitude. “Come. I made reservations.”

  
  


Akihito briefly wondered when he’d allowed himself to lose enough of his spine to give in to Asami’s every whim and desire but found himself following him into the car anyway. He survived with his dignity intact only by convincing himself that it was a practical decision—he didn’t know his way home from here, and if Asami insisted on paying for his food, so much the better.

  
  


The car stopped outside an expensive French restaurant downtown. Akihito had read the rave reviews in magazines but never imagined that he’d ever be going inside as a customer. The dishes were well outside of his price range for fine dining. Ordinarily, he’d have been ashamed to let Asami treat him to anything so lavish and costly, but today, he was in the mood to take full advantage. Asami owed him, after all. Three weeks without a fucking phone call. He’d better have a good explanation.

  
  


Taking one look at the couple standing in the entrance, the maitre d’ led them inside and seated them in a quiet corner of a private section. Seconds later, another waiter followed with a bottle of red wine, and the owner appeared in person to bid them welcome. So Asami knew the management—fucking figured. Mobsters in fancy suits with cigars and red wine, all of them.

  
  


While Akihito continued to fume, Asami ordered after only a brief glance at the menu. It made Akihito feel even more uncomfortable, because he knew that that was what men traditionally did for their wives. But it wasn't his fault that he didn't understand anything on the fucking menu. Damn those French and their sense of cultural superiority. Right then, he would’ve traded his hand-tailored suit for a good old bowl of ramen.

  
  


When the waiter brought out the food, they ate in silence. Akihito was too busy being petty, and Asami seemed bent on enjoying his meal regardless. Admittedly, it tasted great—filet mignon in a creamy wine sauce with shrimp, spinach, and fine angel hair pasta. Akihito tried very hard not to let it show how much he was enjoying it, but after three weeks of takeout, TV dinners, and instant ramen, that was aggravatingly hard to do.

  
  


When they were both finished, Asami wiped his mouth with his napkin and asked, “Care for dessert?”

  
  


Akihito just sat and glared at him. Answers, he wanted fucking answers. Not ice cream, or whatever the Hell the French had for dessert. Caviar, escargot... like Hell if he knew. He didn't belong in this world.

  
  


“Waiter,” Asami beckoned the man to come toward him, then continued softly in perfect French, “my partner here will have a Poire Belle-Hélène, and just a glass of Cointreau for me, please.”

  
  


Fucking French. He had no idea what the Hell Asami had just ordered. It just as well _could_ be snails, or swamp water. And why didn't he even have an accent when he spoke? It wasn't fair, it just wasn't.

  
  


His hands were balled into such tight fists that his knuckles were turning white with the strain.

  
  


When the server reappeared promptly with a tray of liquor and the poached pear, he had to bite his lip. The ice cream, the chocolate syrup—Akihito wouldn't have been surprised if it was the sweetest dessert they served at this restaurant. That was probably the worst thing of all: the fact that Asami knew him that well. Fuck.

  
  


Asami's eyes never left him as he took his first few tentative tastes of the dish. It was as amazing as it looked, if not moreso. He wanted to cry.

  
  


“Will you relax now?” Asami asked in between sips of his liquor. “I was simply away on business. One of my units in Korea got itself into some legal trouble. I decided to go and clear up the mess in person. I didn't call because I didn't want to risk getting you involved just in case things got messy. That was all. Are you happy now?”

  
  


Akihito nodded. It wasn't a very good excuse, and knowing Asami, it might as well have been a lie. But it was an answer, and it was enough. He was getting damned tired of fighting, especially when he'd known all along that there was no way he would win.

  
  


While Akihito consumed his dessert, Asami finished his Cointreau and said, “Let me know when you're finished. I'll take you home.”

  
  


***

  
  


Asami walked him to his front door, but once Akihito slipped the key into the lock and pushed it open, the former made no move to follow him inside.

  
  


“Aren’t—” Akihito looked back, his eyes wide. “Are you coming in?”

  
  


“Not today.” Asami’s blank expression revealed nothing of what he might be thinking.

  
  


“Oh.” Akihito didn’t even realize that his face fell. “Okay. Good night, then.”

  
  


Asami simply nodded, turned around, and walked away.

  
  


Akihito leaned against the door a long time after it had closed. Goddamnit, he was not going to cry over this. He felt like such a girl—what had he been expecting, anyway? An apology? A good-night kiss? From Asami? Was he losing his fucking mind?

  
  


When the wave of melancholy passed and he found the energy to walk, he went to the bedroom, stripped out of the suit, and changed into some of his own clothes. Then he grabbed his camera from the nightstand and removed the film. If there was anything that could help him get his mind off things, it was developing the negatives. He hurried to the darkroom.

  
  


He had just succeeded in removing the film from the magazine and loading it into the reel in the canister when the doorbell rang. Confused by who would want something at this late hour, he nonetheless decided to at least check.

  
  


To his surprise, it was Asami standing patiently in the hall. “Yes?”

  
  


Asami’s face was still stoic, but there seemed to be the hint of a frown on his brow. “Can I come inside?”

  
  


Akihito found himself shrugging as he stepped aside. “I’m in the middle of processing some film, though. If you want anything, you’ll have to wait.”

  
  


“That’s fine,” Asami said with a slight smirk as he stepped inside. “I’d like to watch you work your magic.”

  
  


Akihito didn’t say a word as he led the way to the darkroom. Inside, he turned off all but the red lights. Darkness wasn’t required for developing, but it felt weird without it. Of course, now he was stuck with the predicament of being in a small, dark enclosed space with Asami standing three feet behind him, scrutinizing his every move as he poured developer into the film canister and began to agitate it by slowly shaking the container.

  
  


The darkroom was supposed to be his sanctuary, but right now the air was so heavy and full of tension that he couldn't even breathe, let alone do anything about the presence at his back, which was incidentally the cause of all of his distress.

  
  


“I've done nothing but stand behind you. I haven't so much as lifted a finger,” Asami's voice sounded amused, his breath playing along the edge of Akihito's ear, “yet you've been trembling this whole time.”

  
  


He reached out his hand, no, just a single finger, a fingertip playing along the nape of his neck, teasing, tortuously slow. Things like this should be illegal, Akihito thought. This was clearly harrassment. He was so used to Asami barging in and just taking him, he didn't know what to do now that Asami seemed to feel like being playful. If he was going to do it, he should just fucking do it! Akihito felt like he was trapped in a web of lust; he'd been trapped for three weeks now, and all he wanted was to break free.

  
  


It was the wine. It had to be the wine, and the champagne before that. Or maybe Asami had drugged him somewhere along the way. It had to be the case, had to be, because there's no way that he would be reacting this way to the touch of a single one of Asami's fingers. He refused to believe that he was so out of control of his own body that he would be aroused by such a thing.

  
  


“Could it be, Akihito, that you didn't really enjoy our 'date' today?” Akihito had to fight the urge to squirm, as Asami's lips were so close to his ear, he was practically kissing it, carefully enunciating each word like he was wrapping his tongue around a sensuous _thing_. “That all along, what you really wanted was just. Raw. Sex.”

  
  


What Akihito meant to say was, “I want you to fucking go and die.” What came out what a low and lustful moan that, a year ago, he wouldn't have thought himself capable of.

  
  


Before he knew it, he was devouring Asami's mouth like it was filled with candy, and he didn't care, just didn't care anymore, as long as they were just fucking _touching_, because anything else was too painful to bear.

  
  


“I hate you,” he whimpered when they finally ended the kiss, unable to remember when the tears got there, “for making me this way.”

  
  


Asami chuckled, his hands already finding their way down to Akihito's pants. “Don't lie. You love every minute of it.”

  
  


Starving for the touch of Asami’s lips on his, Akihito pressed in closer while Asami’s hands continued to roam lower and lower, disappearing under the line of his belt. As familiar as it was by now, the sensation of Asami’s rough, firm hand on his cock was still intoxicating and he soon found himself gasping for breath. It wasn’t until he hit his head against one of the shelves while coming up for air that he finally recalled what he had originally been doing.

  
  


“Oh, shit,” he remembered with a start, reaching back behind him to continue to push the film canister back and forth to agitate the developer, “There’s still six minutes left.”

  
  


“That’s plenty of time to make you beg for me,” Asami remarked with a smirk.

  
  


“I won’t beg.” Akihito glared, though not enough to hide the growing heat in his eyes. “I’ll never beg.”

  
  


With Akihito still holding onto the film canister, Asami tugged at his belt with one hand until his pants slid to the floor. His underwear soon followed. Asami’s other hand never let go of Akihito’s cock, although Akihito felt like perhaps it was his cock that wasn’t letting go of Asami’s hand. The latter knew how to pinpoint the exact spots where he was most sensitive, expertly utilizing them to work the boy into a frenzy.

  
  


Asami’s other hand worked its way back up, lifting his shirt to reveal his hardening nipples. He tugged at them, played with them, and teased like there was no tomorrow. Akihito wasn’t used to such extensive foreplay—most of the time, Asami would just force his way inside at the first good opportunity, and things would go from there. Their pace tonight was almost torturously slow by comparison.

  
  


“Hurry up already,” he found himself panting, and Asami’s smug grin asserted what they both realized: that that had just sounded an awful lot like begging.

  
  


Thankfully, Akihito was saved from any humiliating remarks by the buzz of the timer. In one motion, Asami let go of his cock and nipples and took a step backward, causing the boy to almost fall forward, suddenly off-balance. He muttered some soft curse words to himself as he turned to focus his attention back on his film, his painfully hard erection making it difficult to stand on his own two feet.

  
  


“What now?” Asami asked gruffly as Akihito rinsed out the film canister and poured in the contents of another jug of chemicals.

  
  


“Stop bath,” Akihito groaned. “Thirty seconds.”

  
  


Evidently considering that too little time to accomplish a lot sexually, Asami used the interval to remove his suit jacket, vest, and tie. He also reached from behind to tug off Akihito’s shirt while the latter agitated the contents of the film canister. That was all they had time for before the timer buzzed again.

  
  


Akihito rinsed and refilled the canister with more chemicals, Asami’s hand lingering on his now-bare chest. He was completely fucking naked in his own darkroom. Had it been anyone other than Asami in the room, it would’ve been ridiculous, but now, it seemed strangely appropriate.

  
  


“Next?” Asami whispered after nibbling on his earlobe from behind.

  
  


“Fixer,” Akihito panted, Asami’s hand having roamed to his nether regions once again. “Five minutes.”

  
  


Asami undid his belt and unzipped his fly. Akihito’s eyes widened. Surely, Asami wasn’t thinking of— There was no way either of them were going to have time to release in the short period allotted them before he had to rinse out the canister again, and then he’d be caught in the weird position of having Asami inside of him, both of them halfway to orgasm, while he tried to finish up developing his film.

  
  


He decided to say as much. “Asami, there’s no way we can—”

  
  


“Then what do you want to do?” Asami’s face was expressionless, his eyes dark and threatening.

  
  


Akihito considered his options. He couldn’t bear another five minutes of foreplay and teasing; that he knew for sure. Unless, of course, he himself wasn’t the one receiving the foreplay. Was that what Asami was suggesting?

  
  


He looked down at the ground and swallowed. “I guess, I could— To you—”

  
  


Thankfully, Asami did not force him to finish his sentence—the only thing that saved the remnants Akihito’s pride in that instance. He simply acknowledged his understanding of the implication with a nod and a smirk as he lowered the front of his pants enough to reveal his erection and guided Akihito to his knees.

  
  


When Akihito obediently opened his mouth and began to suck on the tip of his cock, Asami smiled and murmured, “Good boy.”

  
  


Diligently licking, stroking, and sucking along the shaft, Akihito continued to agitate the film canister in one hand. This was never one of his favorite activities. Part of him still felt it was disgusting, but even moreso, he couldn’t shake the sense of humiliation of it. In the back of his mind, a voice whispered that in a way, it was only fair that he repay Asami this way, but it wasn’t enough to shake off his revulsion for the act. But when Asami let out a few grunts of approval despite his usual stoic demeanor, Akihito felt a sudden surge of pride.

  
  


Asami looked as though he were ready to burst by the time the buzzer sounded, although Akihito knew first-hand that that was never an accurate indication of the older man’s stamina. He could keep going for hours if he set his mind to it. Akihito blushed furiously as he stood back up and stumbled over to the counter. Asami came up from behind and kissed him passionately, suggesting that his efforts had not been in vain. It took some of the sting off the degradation of his dignity.

  
  


While Akihito rinsed the contents of the canister with PermaWash and PhotoFlo, Asami fondled his cock and balls and began to prepare his rear opening for entry. By the time Akihito set the film to rinse for the last time, his head was spinning and his body was on fire and drenched in sweat. His ass was literally _begging_ for attention. There was no use in fighting it.

  
  


It took every effort to concentrate long enough to hang the film in the film-drying cabinet. Then he sent one lustful glance Asami’s way, and the tall man scooped him up in his arms and carried him to the bedroom like a little kid. Depositing Akihito on the bed none too gently, the rest of Asami’s clothes were off in a flurry—fucking world record holder—and this time, he forced his way inside without any more foreplay or preparation. Yet instead of resisting, Akihito found himself welcoming it. _God_, he was ready. He’d been ready for it for three weeks.

  
  


They moved in tandem, Akihito raising his hips to meet every one of Asami’s thrusts. It was true that it felt much better when he wasn’t trying to resist it—and it did feel so incredibly good. He had his arms wrapped around Asami’s neck, trying to press their bodies as close together as possible. Akihito wasn’t letting Asami go either.

  
  


When he came, it felt as though he came in fountains, the release long and hot and messy. But aside from being a little out of breath, he had lost none of his energy—which was good, because they kept going. Sex with Asami meant coming at least three times in one night.

  
  


Each time he came, the sensations were more intense. When Asami himself finally released, his immense stamina exhausted, he pressed their lips together passionately. Akihito, who was already dozing off, kept his arms locked around Asami’s neck, making it a rather difficult task to disentangle their bodies. Asami smiled to himself. The boy was so wonderfully conflicted.

  
  


He mouthed the words against the skin of the boy’s temple: “Good night, my kawaii Akihito.”

  
  


***

  
  


When Akihito opened his eyes in the morning, he was surprised to find that the bed beside him was warm. With a start, he found himself still lying pressed to a naked Asami, one arm wrapped around his torso while the other rested between them. Asami lay awake and was watching him carefully, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. For the fourth or fifth time in two days, Akihito felt like he might cry.

  
  


It was the first time he hadn’t woken up alone.

  
  


Sleep was still tugging at his mind. It was still dark outside—not yet sunrise, and he was so content and warm.

  
  


Nuzzling Asami’s shoulder, his eyes closed, Akihito asked, “Can I pretend this is a sign that there’s maybe a little love implied by the word ‘lover’?”

  
  


Asami smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “You don’t have to pretend.”

  



End file.
